Illuminated

By Erica Orloff

Some loves are not made to last . . . Like Romeo and Juliet, Heloise and Abelard were doomed from the start, and their romance was destined to pass into history. Yet when sixteen-year-old Callie Martin discovers a diary hidden within an antique book, their story - and hers - takes on another life. For the diary leads Callie to the brilliant and handsome August, who is just as mysterious as the secret the diary hides. Their attraction is undeniable. As the two hunt down the truth behind the diary - and that of Heloise and Abelard's ancient romance - their romance becomes all-consuming. But Callie knows it can't last . . . love never does. Will their love that burns as bright as a shooting star flame out, or will these star-crossed lovers be able to defy history?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
• Release date: Dec 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781101552896

Erica Orloff

Erica Orloff is a native New Yorker, novelist, blogger, mother of four, chronic insomniac, alt-rock loving, voracious reader (and prolific writer) who has written over twenty novels across a number of genres and pen names. She currently lives in Virginia where she rarely sleeps, roots for the Yankees and the NY Giants, knits in her almost-never free time, herds worms with her six-year-old Pirate Boy, and tries to hold onto what little sanity she has left.

Book preview

1

I had another dream . . .—A.

Like the breath of a ghost against an icy window, the scrawl whispered to us across the centuries.

Even a book has its secrets. Come on, then, tell us more, Uncle Harry spoke to the manuscript, as if willing it to illuminate. He leaned over its fragile pages like an ancient scholar, staring intently at the parchment.

Secrets? I asked him, my voice echoing in the cavernous room of the auction house, its marble floors and twenty-foot-high ceilings carrying even a soft hush like a tree rustling its leaves.

Callie, everyone, everything, has secrets. Even books. My job is to coax them out. He aimed the ultraviolet light more closely and exhaled audibly.

What is it? I whispered, and peered over his shoulder, feeling a tingle like the delicate legs of a spider skittering up my neck and across my shoulders.

He pointed. In the margin!

And there, in a spidery scrawl, ethereal words emerged under the bluish light.

It looks like someone wrote over old handwriting, I said softly, squinting to make out the words. I knew that as the medieval illuminated manuscripts expert at Manhattan’s Royal Auction House, Uncle Harry lived for these parchment books, illustrated by monks, that whispered stories from across the centuries. He talked about them over breakfast and over dinner. He read about them. He wrote about them. Whatever that writing was in the margin, it was the stuff of Uncle Harry’s dreams.

Do you know what this means?

Not really.

It’s a palimpsest.

A what?

He grinned at me. About six feet tall, with pale blue eyes and dimples, and just the first hints of silver strands in his sandy blond hair, Uncle Harry is the smartest man I know. He has a photographic memory and an encyclopedic knowledge of history. But he’s not boring. With him, history is alive.

"A palimpsest! Centuries ago, a thousand years ago, paper was rare. So people wrote on papyrus or on goat skin or on vellum. They wrote on parchment and scrolls. Then, when they didn’t need that book or information anymore, they washed out the old writing with oat bran and milk or some kind of wash, or sometimes a pumice stone. Then they would write on the parchment or vellum again. And the old writing was lost. They thought forever."

I stared at the feathery script in the margin barely visible in the glow of the bluish ultraviolet light.

So I’m looking at hidden writing from a thousand years ago? That someone covered over. Secret writing?

He nodded. Sometimes we get lucky. The stars align, princess, and you get a gift . . . one of these. They’re priceless. Usually time and the elements disintegrate them.

I stared at the book. The strokes in ink were precise, elegant, and each one perfect. No letter was higher than the other—they aligned, no ink blotches, each a work of art. The picture on the page was gilded, the gold not faded by time, and deep blues and greens depicted a knight and a lady, the colors as rich as a peacock’s feathers.

It is beautiful, I said.

But what makes this even more extraordinary is the hidden writing. Secrets don’t stay shrouded forever, Callie. Not really. They always leave a trail, even a thousand years later.

Did the collector who brought it to the auction house know it was a palimpsest?

He shook his head. No. He inherited his father’s collection of rare books and manuscripts. The son just wants the cash. Uncle Harry stared wistfully at the manuscript. Little did he even imagine what secrets were on these pages. The auction for this will go into the hundreds of thousands of dollars, maybe millions. I’ll have a better idea once I know more about the manuscript’s history. He paused and shook his head. It’s rather sad, really.

Why?

A person spends their whole life amassing a collection of books or antiques. They think it will help them live on forever. And then it gets sold by their kids, who don’t really care one way or the other about their parents’ stuff. Maybe an obsession can never be shared.

Maybe. But then... here we are, I said. "The words in the margin have lived on. You care."

I still can’t believe it. And I know someone else who’s going to be elated. I need to go call Dr. Peter Sokolov.

Who’s that?

He’s a rare-book dealer. The world’s foremost expert on medieval manuscripts.

More of an expert than you? That’s hard to believe.

He was my mentor. And yes, he knows more than even I do. He’s someone who understands your crazy old uncle and his love of these ancient papers. Uncle Harry kissed the top of my head. I told you this was going to be a good summer.

I rolled my eyes. "All right. You found an old manuscript. A really old one. One that has secrets. But still I don’t think you can count this as a good summer—yet. My father ditched me and took off for Europe with his latest blond girlfriend. Is it me or do they seem to be getting younger and blonder?"

It’s not you. I’ve never understood your father. Never understood why my sister married him in the first place. Uncle Harry frowned. I shouldn’t have said that.

"Why not? It’s true. And as exciting as this is, it’s, well, a dusty old manuscript." Could I tell him I was hoping for a summer romance? Or an adventure?

Patience, Callie. He winked at me. Secrets . . .

What’s that supposed to mean?

You never know where a secret will take you. It’s like playing hide-and-seek throughout history. He said it in a mysterious, yet playfully obnoxious kind of way. I’ve got to go make some calls. You can look at the palimpsest. But don’t touch it. He walked to his office, and with a backward glance added, Or breathe on it.

I leaned over and stared at the tiny scrawl that was just barely visible. I squinted. The script was old-fashioned. I couldn’t really make out any words.

Then I saw it. At the bottom it was signed.

002

I had another dream, and this time the sun and moon and eleven stars were bowing down to me.

—A.

2

Touch the stars. Dream of them. —A.

My mother was my palimpsest. She died when I was six, and I’ve spent my life searching for hidden secrets about her, hoping she would whisper to me the way the scrawl in the margin whispered to Uncle Harry. It’s a longing that never goes away. Sometimes, when I see one of my friends hug their mom, I feel an actual ache in my heart. That night, I curled my knees under me and pored over old photos of her when I was alone in my room in Harry’s apartment.

My room—air quotes there—is what a Manhattan real estate agent calls a second bedroom—meaning it’s not much more than an alcove where someone put up a wall. But it has space for me, and it’s where I search for my mother’s secrets. Uncle Harry has boxes of photos of my mom. He’s my mother’s brother, and I ask him questions about her all the time. I wonder if I am like her . . . because I know I’m nothing like my dad.

My father and I have spent our entire lives avoiding each other—in some ways, it’s perfect for us that he’s never home. During the school year, I lived with my father outside of Boston. Luckily, he travels so much I end up spending half my time with my friend Sofia’s family, or being checked on by our neighbor in the condo across the hall. But summers are my favorite time, reserved for Uncle Harry and his partner, Gabe, and New York City. We usually fit in lots of plays, trips to the beach, and once, even a trip to Toronto.

And this summer? I was especially grateful to escape. This threatened to be the Summer of the Stepmother, since my dad had been checking out diamond rings with the latest, blondest girlfriend named Sharon. The whole concept kind of made me want to throw up.

After looking at photos of my mom and chatting on Facebook with Sofia, who was spending the summer at a show choir camp, I fell asleep with the TV turned low.

When I woke up, I stared at the ceiling, then looked at the plasma screen on the wall. A morning news anchor with hair perfectly plastered into place was telling me it was six A.M.

Argh! I said to Uncle Harry’s cat, Aggie, short for Agamemnon. He has one green eye and one yellow, and is a silvery Persian who leaves hair everywhere. "It’s summer. I can sleep in. Why am I awake?!"

Aggie just meowed and stepped on my stomach before settling down again, purring like a motor. I clicked channels with the remote, too lazy to get up, too awake to fall back to sleep.

About twenty minutes later, Uncle Harry knocked on my door. You up? he called.

Unfortunately.

He poked his head in my room. What are you wearing to work today?

I looked over at my tiny closet, which was open and had my clothes spilling onto the floor. "Um . . . I don’t know. Dressy jeans and a sweater set—it’s so cold in your office, I’m tempted to wear mittens. And since when do you care what I wear to fetch your coffee? I’m your gopher. I haven’t decided. It’s too early to decide."

What about this? He flung a bag from Barney’s at me.

I sat up and ruffled a hand through my bedhead mess of curls. I could hear Gabe singing in the shower—Luck Be a Lady Tonight. He was once in a revival of Guys and Dolls. He had played Sky Masterson. Uncle Harry went to the show twenty times, always sitting in the front row, center seat—which, if you do the math means he spent a small fortune—and he waited afterward with his yellow and black Playbill to get Gabe’s autograph at the theater door. It’s a nauseatingly cute how we met story. And the rest, as they say, is history.

It’s pretty pathetic when your uncle has a better love story than you’ve had at this point. Being an affirmed member of the brainy club meant my love life definitely lacked something as adorable. Of course, my grandmother still thinks Uncle Harry just hasn’t met the right woman. But at least he knows how to shop.

I peered into the bag, pushed aside the tissue paper, and looked up at Harry. You’re kidding, right?

I pulled it out and held up the little black summer dress. It was, indeed, adorable. I glanced at the tag.

"Three hundred and fifty dollars? Now you’ve really lost your mind."

"No, I haven’t. I’ve just always wanted to buy an Audrey Hepburn Breakfast at Tiffany’s dress, but never had anyone to buy one for. Until you! Come on—don’t you just love it?"

I nodded, shocked. It was probably the classiest thing I had ever owned. It’s gorgeous. Too bad you and a bunch of dusty manuscripts are the only ones to see me in it.

You can never look too good for a day with goat skin and vellum.

I grinned at him. Thank you. I really do love it.

After a shower, I let my hair air-dry curly. The weather report said humid—which means there is absolutely no point fighting my hair’s true nature. Something that’s a cross between a Chia pet and steel wool.

I put on some lip gloss and mascara and a pair of black ballet flats—I also don’t fight being five feet three inches. But I’m cheating because really, it’s five feet two, and my hair just adds a little height. My skin is naturally pale, with freckles that I also don’t bother to fight very much, and I have light gray eyes. I looked over at the built-in bookshelves. Uncle Harry keeps a black-and-white framed photo of my mother. She’s looking right at the camera and laughing, her hair blowing in the wind. In the picture, she’s wearing this whole Madonna-in-the-’80s outfit, and somehow, she’s pulling it off.

I wish I knew what was making her laugh in that picture. Uncle Harry doesn’t remember. I look a little like her—different color hair, but the same pale skin. Alas, tanning just leaves me lobster-pinkish. But I think that’s where the similarity ends. Because somehow in every picture of her, she looks like a model, or a bohemian artist, or someone glamorous from a fairy-tale life.

I rechecked my reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door in my room. I almost looked . . . adult. I smiled back at myself and then stepped out into the narrow hallway. It’s lined with posters and Playbills from their favorite Broadway shows—Guys and Dolls, Contact, 42nd Street, Chicago, Spamalot. I turned right and walked into their kitchen to make some coffee. It’s a big kitchen by Manhattan standards, tiny by Boston standards, with sparkling stainless appliances and gleaming pale maple cabinets and granite countertops. I started toward the coffeemaker.

No time, sugarplum, Harry said. Starbucks on the way. We’ve got to go.

Gabe walked over to me.

Are you wearing a kimono? I asked him, fingering the blue and green silk.

Yup.

Nice. I’ll have to borrow it sometime.

If I were you, I’d never change out of that to-die-for dress. You look gorgeous.

Thanks.

Reviews for Illuminated

[bkwormblogger · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Synopsis:Some loves are not made to last . . . Like Romeo and Juliet, Heloise and Abelard were doomed from the start, and their romance was destined to pass into history. Yet when sixteen-year-old Callie Martin discovers a diary hidden within an antique book, their story—and hers—takes on another life. For the diary leads Callie to the brilliant and handsome August, who is just as mysterious as the secret the diary hides. Their attraction is undeniable. As the two hunt down the truth behind the diary—and that of Heloise and Abelard’s ancient romance—their romance becomes all-consuming. But Callie knows it can’t last . . . love never does. Will their love that burns as bright as a shooting star flame out, or will these star-crossed lovers be able to defy history?Review:Callie meets August almost immediately in the story. And as soon as they meet its love at first sight (please, really?). The author writes the words that I see too often now..... "[And I stared/looked into/ bumped into/came])face-to-face with the most gorgeous guy I'd ever seen in my life." So much so that August is slightly forward in his dialogue which didn't quite sit well with me. He almost professes his love straight away and this put me on edge. Sure, he's sweet, kind and loves his garden (which Callie proclaims later in the story as her favourite place in the world). But as she really has known August about as long as this review so far, I didn't feel any fluttering towards their love story.This book has a great story behind it. The finding of The Book of Hours, and subsequent story telling of Heloise and Abelard. Unfortunately I'd already read The Tenth Chamber by Glenn Cooper earlier in the year and though that book isn't great either it does tell the story of the Starcrossed lovers in a better way. Personally while I love myths and legends the story of H & A doesn't really strike me as one of the great factual love stories (but that's just me) so it kind of took the shine off the thing.Sure, there's romance happening within the pages of the Book of Hours and there's romance between our two main characters, and a small amount between the friends they make, but none of it was heart-pumping, toe curling, to die for stuff. I can only put it down to the authors story writing which was too unemotional while trying to be emotion.Its a sweet book but there is little mystery, intrigue or suspense and absolutely no danger (except for a slight break-in of August's home) as Callie and August trek across the pond to Paris, at least none that I felt anyway. The threats that could have made the story interesting faded away in the plot holes i.e. Tome Raider. So I was left a little empty after the last page.This is one to fill time if you need to but no epic in any way.